One Step
by Maggy
Summary: A filler -- slightly updated on October 21, 2002.


DISCLAIMER: Once again, I have borrowed these characters in order to peek into some of the parts of their interaction that never made it to the screen. I completely respect the right of their creators, and intend no disrespect. 

General (Be forewarned of a couple of "dammit" exclamations.)

e-mail Maggysfic (at) aol (dot) come ... and please don't archive without my permission.

I welcome constructive feedback (and I try to offer the same).

Disclaimer: I don't own Ms. Parker, Sidney, Broots, or Jarod, but sometimes they visit and tell me things. I mean no disrespect, uphold the creators' rights to their   
intellectual property, and am grateful to be allowed to borrow the characters for a little while.

TIMELINE: Just after "Project Silence"-- after a completely non-canonical pretend which occurred during Parker's recovery from the accidental bullet   
wound she took at the airstrip. I took a few teeny little literary liberties with the chronology of events in one pivotal scene, here referred to by Broots.

**HEALING**  
**by Maggy**

The office door opened and a balding head poked hesitantly through the opening.

"Good morning, Ms. Parker. H- how are you feeling?"

"Hellish, as usual, Broots. Thanks for reminding me. Any news on Cheetah?" She eased herself into the chair behind her desk, laying an ebony walking stick across the surface. Then she looked up and raised an eyebrow expectantly.

"If you mean Jarod," -- a tone of annoyance surfaced in his voice that seemed to surprise even Broots-- "we have a small lead."

Parker shifted her look to a full force glare. "Attitude, Broots? Tch tch tch -- don't tell me you're starting a secret branch of the Jarod Fan Club?"

"Of course not, Ms. Parker. I just--"

"Cut the crap and give me the scoop."

Broots blinked a bit, and rubbed his head nervously. "Well, there's a new employee at a spinal cord injury rehabilitation clinic in Cicero, Illinois-- a Dr. Jarod Parker."

_ Parker? _  
Unprepared to delve into the possible reasons for that particular alias, Miss Parker propelled her chair away from the desk, and lurched to her feet. With a grab at her new fashion accessory, the silver-topped black cane, she gestured towards the door. "Well, then, what the hell are we waiting for?"

Her hapless colleague glanced at the cane as it swept perilously close to his head, and turned the duck into a nod. "I'll have the jet prepared."

"So, where's Sid?" she asked, as they prepared for take-off an hour later. "I thought he was as anxious as I am to get his lab rat back into the maze."

"Sidney was in the middle of a seventy-two-hour test on triplets who have lost a sibling. He couldn't leave."

"No problem. He'll be three times as happy when we haul Jarod in. This time, I can feel it." She grinned, and reached for the drink on the low table in front of her. The movement changed her grin to a grimace, and she sucked air through her teeth as the pain hit.

"Dammit!" She shifted uncomfortably in the soft leather seat.

Wordlessly, Broots leaned forward and handed her the glass.

"Ms. Parker?" His voice was solicitous, but there was something more behind the question.

"What?"

"I was just wondering-- that is-- "

"What? Spit it out, Broots."

"I don't mean to get personal, Ms. Parker, but--"

"_Today_, Broots; this flight only takes an hour and a half."

The tech straightend his shoulders and looked up with a surprising directness. "Why do you hate Jarod so much?"

Her eyebrows ascended in amazement, launching Broots into an immediate stammer. "I mean, OK, I know he teases you with clues that lead nowhere, and we have to chase around the country trying to find him, but-- I mean--"

Waiting for his rant to run its course, Parker held her glass in front of her, watching the liquid glimmer in the light. After a moment, she answered in an uncharacteristically soft voice even more frightening than a yell. "Get this straight, Broots: Jarod is my job. Do not forget that. The Centre is paying me a lot of money to bring him back to finish the work he left-- unfinished."

"Oh, I know. Me, too. I mean, it's my job, too. Only-- it's not p-personal for me."

"Personal?" She flashed her teeth in a feral smile. "It's only personal, Broots, because I can't wait to get off this hellride. He runs, and we chase, and the only acceptable outcome is capture. I am not spending the next four years like this. When I hand him over to the-- to my father, I can get the hell out of here -- and have a life again. That's the only part of it that's 'personal'." Parker sat up stiffly, then twisted awkwardly as the movement tensed unhealed muscles. "Dammit! I understand how Lyle and his henchmen screwed up the Silence Imperative, but Jarod never should have gotten out of the Centre in the first place! How could they let him escape again?"

Broots had begun thumbing through his monthly copy of Mainframe Security, and muttered under his breath: "You should be asking how they caught him in the first place."

Parker heard him, and shot a suspicious glance. "What are you mumbling about now?"

The man shrugged, glancing down at the technical journal in his lap.

"Broots..." The menace in her tone was unmistakable. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure the sweepers at the back of the plane were out of earshot.

"The day of the exchange," he said in a hushed voice.

"What about it? I took the bullet that was mean for Daddy, and after Major Charles and the boy got away, Jarod was caught trying to escape in the confusion."

Broots shook his head. "That's the abridged version. You're leaving out the, uh, concrete details-- so to speak." He met her threatening glance with a nervous swallow. "For-- for instance, the real reason you didn't die out there on the tarmac."

"I know why I didn't die-- Daddy--" Her voice caught on an unaccustomed emotion, and she closed her eyes for a moment. "Daddy helped me. He-- held me in his arms until the ambulance came."

"Uh, Ms. Parker, that's not exactly true." Her companion cleared his throat softly.

Her eyes snapped open. "What the hell do you mean, 'not exactly true'?"

"Well, your father caught you when you were shot, yes, but Jarod could have escaped. He ran back to help you. He took you from your father and got your vital signs stabilized--"

"No. It was my father--"

"Your father pushed him away from you, and Brigitte pulled a gun on him. That's when he ran, Ms. Parker."

Parker blinked, once, feeling as if someone had just kicked her in the stomach. "My father-- you're trying to tell me that Jarod-- he--"

Broots nodded. "He was recaptured because he wouldn't leave you to die."

She turned her head away to stare blankly out the window. Unconsciously, she reached for her cane, rubbing her hand slowly across the silver carving on the handle.

"I just thought you should know," Broots said. Then he stood up and headed for the front of the cabin, where he opened the fridge and took out a can of Dr. Pepper.

Parker did not refer again to their conversation, and neither did Broots. The sweep of the clinic was uneventful, except for the incident in which she recovered the red notebook.

They were hurrying through the common area, where patients in wheelchairs played cards or watched television. Parker trailed behind a bit, leaning on the silver handle of her cane. The combination of flight and now fruitless pursuit were beginning to take their toll, and she just wanted to get back to the jet to lie down. All at once, a young woman with long dark hair and transluscent blue eyes rolled her wheelchair into Parker's path, forcing her to stop her determined forward stride.

Parker stared haughtily at the interruption, an angry dismissal springing to her lips. Head held high, the younger woman glared right back.

In the face of such defiance, Parker changed her demeanor abruptly. "Did you want something?"

"Yes." The woman gripped the sides of her wheelchair and slowly, awkwardly, rose to her feet until she was looking no more than two inches up into Parker's face. "I wanted to thank you, Miss Parker."

At the use of her name, Parker blinked. Past experience had made her wary of such encounters, and she hesitated a moment before responding. "Why?"

The strain of standing began to show in the slight unsteadiness of the other woman's voice. "Because if I keep working, I will most likely be able to walk-- with crutches-- in two to six months. And you are indirectly responsible."

"I'm almost afraid to ask."

The younger woman smiled again. "My name is Annie. Jarod said I reminded him of you, and that if I was half as stubborn as you, I'd never give in to being a paraplegic. He-- told me about you." Her blue eyes flicked down to the cane, and her lips quirked into the briefest of knowing smiles. "I think he was more worried than he let on."

Parker dropped her eyes to the wheelchair, and saw the edge of what looked like a red notebook peeking out of the side pocket. "Is that his?" she asked, knowing the answer. "May I?"

Annie nodded, and Parker leaned down, ever so painfully, to pick it up.

Inside the notebook was a detailed exercise regimen, with a list of instructions tailored for both the extent of her injury, and her lifestyle. There was a note at the end: "I'm sorry I didn't find out about the psych ward till afterwards. Do these exercises and you might even catch me next time. Good luck. J."

"He said you'd been shot the same day as my accident," the other woman continued. "And he bet me an ice cream sundae you'd be here before the end of this week, even if somebody called Broots had to push you in a wheelchair. Looks like he won the bet."

Parker took a pair of sunglasses out of her jacket pocket, sliding them on her face to mask suddenly moist eyes. Even as she wondered whether the injury had made her soft, she said, "If you're half as stubborn as I am, you'll be walking in two months-- without the crutches." An unaccountable impulse drove her to delve into a pocket and hand the girl her business card. "Call me if I'm right."

Then she sidestepped the wheelchair, gripping the warm silver top of the cane more tightly, and made her way out without a backward glance.


End file.
